


Triumvirate

by LadyNorbert



Series: Elemental Chess [4]
Category: Fullmetal Alchemist: Brotherhood & Manga
Genre: F/M, Friendship, Gen, Military Backstory, Other, POV Alternating, POV Multiple, Prequel, Present Tense, Romance, War
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-04
Updated: 2014-07-04
Packaged: 2018-02-07 10:00:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 20,479
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1894836
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyNorbert/pseuds/LadyNorbert
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This follows the interwoven relationships between Roy Mustang, Riza Hawkeye, and Maes Hughes before, during, and just after the Ishvalan War of Extermination. Prequel to the Elemental Chess Trilogy; chiefly corresponds to volume 15 of the FMA manga.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Home Front

_**Triumvirate** _

_Derived from the Latin meaning "three men," this is a formal or informal arrangement in which three individuals control a regime, ostensibly with each holding equal power._

* * *

**Home Front**

_The informal term commonly used to describe the civilian population of a nation at war as an active support system of their military._

* * *

Riza is just brushing nineteen when she must accept the reality that her father is on his deathbed.

He's been coughing up blood for some time, finally refusing to get out of bed. The doctor has attended him twice, and refused to come again after Berthold's rudeness on the second visit. She finds it hard to blame him (the doctor, that is), but it was nice, however briefly, to have someone else participating in Berthold's care.

Her father doesn't want to be treated anyway. He's somehow smug in his dying days, as though there is a peculiar sort of dignity to be had by allowing the illness to conquer him gradually without fighting back. All he really wants, of course, is to be with his wife again. It's one of the only two things he has wanted for as long as Riza can remember; the other he has long since achieved, as the tattoo on her back would bear witness if anyone were allowed to take its testimony.

Occasionally he mutters something before she gets out of earshot. It isn't altogether intelligible, but neither is it altogether incomprehensible either. Eventually she pieces together enough barely-caught words to scrabble together an apology in her mind. He is, in his reluctant and half-hearted and slightly sulky way, sorry for how he has always treated her - or not treated her, either one. It isn't much of an apology, but she knows it's the only one she'll ever receive and so she accepts it.

* * *

It isn't just a fragmented apology that she gets out of him, however.

At first she wonders if it's only wishful thinking on her own part. But no; there are certain hints, little nudges in his verbal cues. He won't put the actual request into words, but she figures him out. There's something he wants. Usually he just demands whatever it is that's struck his fancy; he seems to think that he's entitled to do that, what with the dying and everything. But there's one particular thing he wants and he simply will not ask for it, as though he's ashamed of the affection it suggests he holds for another person.

As it happens, father and daughter both want the same thing, and she makes a shy telephone call to Central City one afternoon while he's resting. It takes a few minutes of transferring before the call makes its way through the proper channels of the training barracks, a few minutes in which she almost loses her nerve entirely and hangs up, but she forces herself to be patient.

"Mustang speaking." The cadet's voice is clipped, official-sounding, and more self-assured than she knows him to actually be.

"Mr. Mustang...this is Riza Hawkeye."

She hates to call him  _Mr. Mustang_. They've grown up together, sort of, and she feels like they should be on some kind of equal footing. And she knows that he would only too willingly let her call him  _Roy_. She doesn't quite dare, though; when he first came to their house six-odd years ago, she was instructed by her father to call the apprentice "Mr. Mustang" and with Riza, old habits die hard and not without a fight.

He's  _Roy_  in her secret heart, however.

There is a pause on the line. When he speaks, his voice is different; a gentleness has crept into the words. "How are you?"

"Well enough, thank you, and yourself?"

"Getting by." He sounds a little wistful. "It's good to hear from you."

"I wish I were calling under more pleasant circumstances, but...it's Father."

"What's wrong?"

She explains the situation. He has a week, if that, and she honestly thinks he would like to see his old apprentice one more time. "I apologize for the abruptness, and if it's not convenient I understand, but I thought -"

"No, no. You were right to call." He sighs. "I'll be on the first possible train."

* * *

The Hawkeyes live in a crumbling manor out in the middle of nowhere, or at least that's how it has always seemed to Riza. They have always lived there, apparently; the house is the ancestral family home, dating from some period in the distant past when some forebear or other actually was  _somebody_. She and her father are all that remain of the line, and whatever fortune they once held that enabled the purchase of the sizeable estate has long since disappeared, the last shreds of it doubtless having been funneled into Berthold's obsessive research.

To Riza, the house has always been empty and sad, as though the building itself grieves for the loss of the bloodline. She barely remembers her mother, who might once have brought some semblance of joy to the narrow corridors and creaking stairs, and if she ever had grandparents or anything of the sort, she has long since forgotten them entirely. For nearly her whole life it has been just the two of them, father and daughter, the last of the Hawkeyes - he a bleak and craggy figure, unaware of the ridicule he inspires in his neighbors, and she the hatchling he alternately resents and ignores. She used to wonder if he would have been happier had she been a boy, rather than a girl who bore entirely too much resemblance to her dead mother, but ultimately she decided that her real crime lay in existing at all.

It was a lonely youth, spent either in the company of a father who would rather she were anywhere but there or in the presence of schoolmates who had little more tolerance for her than he did. She was naturally clever, and rather pretty, but skinny and bashful and skittish. It was hard to say how she might have fared throughout adolescence, if not for the fact that one day a handsome boy from Central knocked on her door and announced that he was there to learn alchemy from her father. For the first time, Riza's black and white world was splashed with color, and her solitary hours had someone to fill them who even seemed like he wanted to be there.

She loves her father with a kind of pathetic tenacity, as though determined to give him what he has ever refused to accept. Roy, on the other hand, she loves with a sort of quiet fierceness that sometimes alarms her. Her heart is warm, despite years in the frigid climate of Berthold's cold and occasionally cruel behavior, and almost desperate to belong to someone who wants it. Whether Roy does or ever did want the thing, she isn't entirely sure, but he has never pushed her away, not once. That alone has been enough to secure her undying loyalty.

* * *

She meets him at the door, and thinks that he's rather unfairly handsome in his blue uniform. It's not a precisely affectionate reunion, but she is happy to see him even in spite of the reason for his visit, and by all appearances he is happy to see her too.

He is a military man, now, or will be once he completes his basic training. He's trying to get into the State Alchemy program, which will give him access to all sorts of research opportunities and grants - she likes to tease him that he's lazy but the truth is that when he finds something he wants to study, he pursues it relentlessly. She lightly adjusts his epaulets and gives him a quick smile, then sends him to see her father.

She has known for some time that her father is dying, but that does not make her entirely ready to accept the reality when he does, in fact, expire less than an hour later. She hears his violent coughing, and hurries to see if he needs anything, only to find that he has tumbled out of the bed and into Roy's arms.

They call for an ambulance, but even if the house weren't so remote, they both know that it's already much too late. Riza will have to learn to live with the fact that she didn't get to say goodbye. In the short term, she stays up to an indecent hour scrubbing Roy's uniform, which is stained with disturbingly large quantities of blood that the coughing had expelled from Berthold's lungs.

Everything will have to be sold, now, to cover the mounting debts that have threatened to engulf the household for a long time. A lawyer and an accountant come and make lists and mutter to each other and work out details that Riza quite simply doesn't have the energy to sort. All Riza will be able to keep for herself are her clothes and a few small family mementos that have no value whatsoever to anyone else. What she will do now, she has no idea yet. The house is going up for auction in two weeks, by which time she will have to have decided. She helps Roy smuggle her father's alchemy books into his trunk, before anyone has the chance to catalogue the collection; she knows that her father would have wanted him to have them. He stays in the house with her, sits with her in the silence to keep it from being too oppressive, and she only loves him more.

* * *

The costs of Berthold's burial are, to her surprise, shouldered by Roy himself. He shakes his head at her when she tries, albeit feebly, to protest. "He was my teacher. It's the least I can do." She doesn't have the words to express her gratitude, nor her suddenly overwhelming distress at the realization that, in perfect truth, he is all she has in the world anymore.

So they take her father, the two of them, to the overgrown cemetery where her mother has been waiting for him all these years. As they stand there, looking down at the pair of graves, she thanks him. They have a little talk about his career path, about his efforts to become a State Alchemist, and he confesses that while he knows he can pass the exam, he hasn't really mastered any particular form of alchemy that's likely to impress.

Then Roy starts talking about the difference he wants to make...his dream of an Amestris that can live in peace, with its citizens happy. She watches his face, sees the conviction in his eyes, which abruptly shifts into embarrassment. He thinks she must believe he's childish, or crazy, or something.

She shakes her head. "I think it's a wonderful dream," she says, and she thinks a little. "Can I entrust my back to that dream?"

It's an odd turn of phrase, and she knows it, and his black eyes are startled and slightly wary. "What do you mean?"

"I mean that I'll give you my father's research."

His expression clouds somewhat. "He said you had it," he admits. "And that I should ask you for it. But it just seemed like too much to ask at a time like this."

"It's asking a lot, but…I think…I think he really wanted you to have it."

* * *

Roy is confused when she tells him there are no notes for him to study. "At least, not the sort you mean," she clarifies, even though that doesn't clarify anything at all.

"What sort, then?"

"I don't  _have_  my father's research, Mr. Mustang. In a sense…I  _am_ my father's research. I'm his repository."

"I don't understand."

They return to the house, and she leads him into the sitting room where, to what she can only imagine must be his profound bewilderment, she turns away from him and sheds the black jacket and shell pink blouse she wore for the burial. The crimson and black array all but screams at him from where it spreads across her pale skin.

"He…my God, Riza, what did he do to you?"

"He asked me to keep his secrets," she replies quietly. "I didn't know what he meant until after I agreed."

There is silence. She has her arms folded in a protective barrier across her breasts, and she finds herself tightening the grip. "How old were you?" he asks at last.

"It was a few months before you came to us."

"You consented to this?"

"Well…I didn't say no," she hedges. Not that she'd thought, at the time, that she had a choice. "He said I was the only one he could trust."

"I'm…so sorry he put you through that. It must have…really hurt."

"It did, but it doesn't anymore. Should I…lie down?" There is a sofa nearby.

"What? Oh. Oh, right."

Funny; she has to smile. The way he says the words, it's almost like an audible blush.


	2. Mobilization

**Mobilization**

_The act of assembling and making both troops and supplies ready for war._

* * *

"I'll need to make notes," Roy tells her. "Is…is that okay?"

Riza looks a little hesitant, glancing at him over her shoulder in a way that makes his heart skip around a bit in his chest. "I'll destroy the notes once I get the hang of it," he promises.

"All right."

He wonders how she must feel, stretched out on her stomach on a slightly moth-eaten sofa while he studies her naked back. He's repulsed by what her father did, by the way he used his only child - probably taking full advantage of her anxious desire to please him and be loved. Roy has always respected Master Hawkeye as a teacher, and as an alchemist, but the man is, or rather was, a terrible parent. Not that he has a father of his own to whom he could make comparisons, but at least he has Madame; whatever else could be said of his aunt, she has always had his best interests at heart. He has a mother, or something like one, which is more than Riza has ever been able to say.

His mind wanders a little, even as he makes his notations and mutters to himself about gases and sparks. He remembers the timid girl who answered the door when he first arrived all those years ago, and how quickly he had deduced her loneliness. He had endeavored to soften it, since he couldn't cure it entirely, and little by little coaxed her out of her shell.

Master Hawkeye's rules for his apprentice had been relatively few, outside of the lessons. Roy had to pull his own weight around the household, which largely took the form of chores like cutting firewood and trying to tame the impossible hedges that lined the property. His evenings were his own, but if he went anywhere he was to be back on the manor grounds, if not inside the house, no later than ten. And under no circumstances was he to be anything more than a friend to the little mistress of the house.

The first two rules were easy to follow. The third was also easy, for the first couple of years; alchemy so completely dominated Roy's concentration that girls were secondary at best. But somewhere in the middle of all of it she had turned into a lovely and graceful young woman. When it happened he wasn't sure, but he would never forget the day it caught his attention. He had gone back to Central for a few weeks to visit his family, and when he returned, she was standing on the front porch to welcome him. It was not long after her fifteenth birthday, which he'd missed on account of his trip home, but he had brought her a box of fudge from the nicest chocolate shop in the city as his way of marking the occasion, and as he approached the house he'd pulled it from his bag to give to her. He looked up at her smiling face, at the sunlight gleaming on her golden hair and the warmth in her molten brown eyes, and for the first time in his life he found himself unable to speak.

He was still forbidden to pursue her, which only increased his feeling. The unattainable is always attractive. For three years, at least, he has wanted only two things to call his own, one of which now lies half-naked in front of him in order to give him what he needs to get the other.

* * *

The whole process of studying the array takes longer than it reasonably should, possibly because Roy keeps getting sidetracked by errant memories and unhelpful desires. He goes back to his old room to give Riza space to change and perhaps have a few minutes to herself, but when he hears her go downstairs and start making dinner, he follows. He's never been able to resist that. There's something about watching her cook that mesmerizes him. She flits around the kitchen like a yellow-brown bird, seasoning and measuring and tasting until whatever she's making becomes somehow perfect.

"What are you making?" he inquires politely.

"Soup." She is cutting vegetables. "I thought it would be the easiest way to finish off some of these remaining perishables, and we can eat the leftovers for lunch tomorrow. We killed the last chicken a few days before you arrived…there's not much meat left, but we'll use up what's here."

"Can I help?"

She hesitates only slightly. "Of course, if you like. Suppose you slice the carrots."

"I think I can manage that." He actually hates to cook, but helping Riza is something else entirely.

It's a gentle sort of quiet, not oppressive or painful. They're both still grieving in their separate fashions, but the burden of their shared loss will subside in time. He wonders if she might be more relieved than anything, considering the relationship she and her father had shared (if, indeed, it could even be called a relationship). She stirs the pot brimming with carrots and chicken and potatoes, scattering handfuls of fragrant herbs into the creamy broth, and there are thick egg noodles floating in the mixture. While she minds the stove, he gets the bowls and spoons and pours them each something to drink. It's so normal and natural and soothing that in a way, it very nearly hurts. Roy can't explain it, except that the scene so closely resembles what he wants to give this girl someday that 'practicing' like this almost breaks his heart.

They eat, and he tries to compliment her cooking without an extravagance of praise. Riza values honesty more than almost anything, and while he certainly means everything he ever says to her, he knows that the more flowery his words get, the less likely she is to put much stock in them. So he aims for plain flattery, a basic expression of gratitude and acknowledgment of her culinary skill, and he must be saying something right because she looks pleased.

"I've missed you," she admits.

"I've missed you too."

* * *

During the morning session the next day, in which Roy makes his first attempt at actually drawing the array, Riza inquires about basic training and how he likes it.

"It's all right," he says. "I mean, I'm not regretting that I chose to go. The pay is good and I feel like I'm making strides toward that goal we talked about." She nods, the movement creating ripples in the brown fabric of the couch cushion under her cheek.

"Have you made friends?"

"A few. My roommate, Maes, is a stand-up kind of guy. I think you would like him."

"What's he like?"

"Kind of dopey." He laughs. "Well, that is, he pretends to be a little dopey. It's mostly subterfuge, so you don't notice just how smart he really is until after he's outfoxed you. He's actually pretty clever. We play chess."

"Does he ever beat you?"

Roy smiles. Riza has long since given up even trying to play chess with him because she just can't seem to win, although she did once note that she respected the fact that he never  _let_  her win. "Rarely."

"Has he learned your weakness yet?"

"Which one?"

"The queen. The only time I ever even came close to beating you, it was because you refused to sacrifice your queen."

"The queen's too important to lose," he says defensively. He has never told her, of course, but in his mind's eye the queen piece always has golden hair and brown eyes.

She just smiles and shakes her head, eliminating the original ripples and replacing them with new ones. "How is it coming?" she inquires, changing the subject.

"Well, I think I understand the basics," he muses thoughtfully, "but there's a part here" - he unthinkingly touches her lower back - "that I need to study more." The skin just under his fingertip quivers, reminds him of what it is he's doing, and he hastily withdraws his hand. "Sorry! I'm - I'm sorry."

"It's okay." She seems a little bit flustered, a fact which rather unexpectedly makes Roy's heart start beating harder than usual. She likes him touching her. He doesn't do it again, but the temptation is strong.

* * *

They adjourn for lunch. Riza tells him about ignition cloth, a special sort of fabric her father had used to create the necessary spark for flame alchemy. "There might still be some remnants in his study," she says. "I'll take a look."

Roy hums in contemplation. "Perhaps if I could get it sewn into a glove, and have the array embroidered onto the glove…that would work."

"In theory, at least, it should. But isn't it a very complicated design for embroidery? I thought you said there were words."

"There are." He pauses, letting what she just said sink into his mind. "You've never seen it, have you?"

"What, the array? No. I tried looking at it in the mirror once or twice, but it was too difficult, not to mention backwards."

"I think I could omit the words, draw a more simplified version of it that would achieve the same basic effect. That wouldn't be too hard to embroider, I shouldn't think."

"Where would you get such a thing done?"

"Madame knows people who do that sort of thing very discreetly. The girls used to get into fights over some of their clothing," he explains, "so she's taken to having the garments monogrammed just to keep the peace."

"I see." Riza has the same look on her face that she always does when he talks about life in the bar, like she's never exactly certain whether to believe him or not. It amuses him to keep her guessing, even though the truth is that he has never been anything but honest - with her, at least, if no one else. He can't lie to her.

* * *

Of course, it does finally happen.

How it happens, Roy isn't totally sure. It's the fifth day since they buried Riza's father, the fifth day since she overwhelmed him with the truth about the secrets she carries on her back. She's lying on her stomach again, he's studying the array again. Her face is turned away from him for a little while, toward the back of the couch, and he half wonders if she's fallen asleep.

He has to touch her skin again. In a way it's just a half-hearted attempt to connect one last time with his old tutor, as though resting his fingertips against the product of the old man's research will help him to understand it better. But it's also exactly that he needs to touch her again. Not the array, the girl. Woman.

She shivers again, like the first time. His fingers are mapping out the interconnected lines of the inscription on her skin, tracing delicate curves under the sharp mounds of her shoulder blades, and she hardly seems to know how to react. Slowly he drags the contact upwards, until he meets the short threads of spun gold. They are just as soft as he remembers from the last and first time he ever touched them.

She turns her head, slowly, with the rest of her following. The eyes that regard him are luminous and soft and just slightly wary. He searches them, trying to find an answer to a question he's never known how to ask. It's there, in the burgundy depths, and without ever speaking anything out loud she tells him a million things he has needed and wanted to know for years.

Later he will spend time trying to find just the right word to describe the taste of her lips, but in the short term, words are hardly necessary. Their mouths meet, and Roy Mustang, for the first time, thinks he might know flame alchemy. Because there is definitely something like a spark happening, and it's going to consume him but that's all right because it's Riza.

She makes a small sound, and it worries him for an instant, like maybe he's right about the flame alchemy and he has, in fact, burned her. But he pulls away to look at her, concerned, and she just smiles. She  _is_ burning, if the brilliant pink in her cheeks is any indication, and this time she's the one to initiate the kiss. At some point in the ensuing firestorm, they abandon the old couch and take refuge in her bedroom.

Roy has thought about this happening. He has thought about it a lot.

And out of all the ways he has imagined it ever coming to pass… well, this isn't one of them.

* * *

Riza is lying on her stomach again. This time, however, she has her upper body propped up on her forearms, and the dark green sheet is wrapped around her legs. It's a pity, Roy thinks lazily, that such impossibly lovely things should be concealed; at the same time, however, the effect of her positioning and the presence of the sheet makes her look like a mermaid from a storybook, and there's something somehow pleasing about the image.

"I know it hurt," he says, "and I'm sorry."

She shakes her head at him. "I would rather be hurt by you than healed by anyone else."

"You should come back to Central with me," he says. "Find work…"

She moves to curl against his side and pillow her head on his chest. "I need to finish taking care of details here first. Then, perhaps, I'll follow you."

"I'll let you know how the State Alchemist's exam goes. If I make it, it'll be because of you. Because you trusted me."

"Of course I trust you. I love you."

His arm tightens around her and he kisses her forehead.


	3. Staging Area

**Staging Area**

_A general locality, often on high ground, established for the concentration of troop units and transient personnel between movements over the lines of communications._

* * *

Gracia flings her arms around his neck, and Maes just laughs. He lifts her off the ground, spinning her around lightly. "I'm so proud of you," she says, her voice a bit muffled where her lips are against the side of his neck.

"Thank you, sweetheart." Setting her down gently, he smiles. "Basic was brutal, not going to lie. But knowing you were cheering me on from the sidelines helped a whole lot."

Today is Maes's graduation from the academy, his induction into the military proper. He has sufficiently excelled in his studies that they give him the rank of Second Lieutenant, which should make him feel pleased and proud. And it does, to some extent, but not entirely. He is an officer, and nowadays, officers get sent to the front lines in Ishval.

He hasn't received his conscription documentation yet, so perhaps there is some tiny room for hope, but he isn't holding out a lot of it.

"I need to talk to you," he tells his girlfriend. "Later today, just you and me."

"Anything for you." Gracia laughs. He loves her laugh; it's free and easy, full of girlish charm, with the subtlest undercurrent of something not as innocent. Something that makes his heart pound and his skin tingle.

"Meanwhile, come on - I need to find Roy. Haven't seen him since this whole thing got started!" He beams at her. "Did you bring the camera?"

"Of course I did, just as you asked."

"Great! I don't have any pictures of me with my buddy, and I'd really like one. Would you mind very much?"

"I think that's a wonderful idea."

They track down Roy Mustang, which is no mean feat. It does not help in the slightest that they're looking for a man in a blue uniform, and today, very nearly every man within Maes's field of vision is dressed that way. Finally they spot him, somewhat apart from the festivities, standing in a sort of corner (if there is such a thing outdoors) and looking solitary. "There you are, Roy!"

"Here I am." He gives them a slight smile. "Hello, Gracia."

She greets him with her usual warmth, congratulating him and inquiring about his plans. Roy is a State Alchemist, which gives him the automatic rank of Major in the Amestrian military. He's likely to be shipped out immediately; he probably already has his assignment. The State Alchemists are vital to the plans for Ishval, even if no one outside of High Command is entirely certain what those plans are actually supposed to be. Perhaps that's the reason for the funny expression he wears now. His coal-black eyes, which normally have at the very least a vaguely pleasant glint to them, are rather on the dull side. Even as he answers Gracia's questions, they flit around, his gaze resting on first one person and then another, a constantly refreshing surge of quiet disappointment evident to the trained observer. And Maes is nothing if not a trained observer.

Roy isn't devastated about being sent to war, or at least that's not what lies uppermost in his mind. He's sad, right now, because whoever it is that he had hoped would attend the graduation ceremony never arrived. Maes doubts that he expected his mother or sisters, as he refers to Madame Christmas and the girls who work for her. They are, according to Roy himself, the only family he has; however, he prefers not to let most people know about his connection to them. Exactly why this is, Maes is not altogether sure. He supposes there might be some shame in a ranking officer claiming a filial connection to the madam of a suspected brothel, but Roy has never struck him as being particularly prudish or ashamed of his past. It seems more as though he wants to keep them a secret for other reasons entirely. Perhaps he worries that they might be used against him, that they might somehow become endangered by his position. Maybe these are the things that keep one awake at night when one has to carry the mantle of the Flame Alchemist.

Not for the first time, Maes is thoroughly glad he never had any interest in nor aptitude for alchemy. If that's the sort of uncertainty it brings, he is only too glad to have nothing to do with it.

He decides to interrupt Roy's constant crowd searching. "Gracia brought the camera," he says gleefully.

Roy sighs. "Maes…"

"Come on, bud! I don't have a single picture of the two of us together, and neither do you. She can take two and I'll give you one when I have the film developed."

He sighs again, and shakes his head. The normally unkempt black hair is in its formal style, combed back sleek and glossy, with just a pair of errant locks escaping to linger on his forehead. (A lot of girls swoon when Roy wears his hair that way, although Maes is privately glad that his girl is not one of them.) When he shakes his head, however, the coif is disturbed just slightly, making the alchemist look a tiny bit more like his usual self. "Fine," Roy says. "If it will make you happy."

"That's the spirit!" Maes slings an arm around Roy's shoulders. "You may fire at will, my darling."

"But neither of you is Will," Gracia teases him lightly, and he laughs. Even Roy cracks a smile at the gentle quip. She lifts the box camera and points it at them. "Smile, you two!"

* * *

Later, Maes picks up Gracia and takes her to Grigorio's Little Creta, on Xerxes Street. It is quite the fancy establishment, formal dress required, and she gives a tiny squeal of shock and delight when he reveals their destination.

"Hey, we're celebrating, right? I wanted something extra special and I couldn't think of anyone I'd rather do something extra special with than you."

The Cretans are not fond of Amestrians, for what Maes has to concede are pretty good reasons, so Cretan restaurants are few and far between, and the owners tend to look on anyone Amestrian - and especially anyone military - with suspicion if not sheer loathing. Maes therefore has not worn his uniform.

Cretans evidently favor the color red in their decorating, to judge by what they find when they enter the place. The windows are hung with dark red velvet curtains, and the tables are adorned with equally crimson tablecloths. All the wood is dark, too, and most of the lighting takes the form of elegant brass candelabra.

Gracia is resplendent in candlelight, which only increases his certainty that this was the perfect choice of restaurant. Her hair is a gentle mousy brown, but there are flecks and glints of copper and gold in it, and as she turns her head this way and that to gaze at her surroundings, the candles pick up on these little hints of color and burnish them. She turns to him, her green eyes huge with surprise and glowing with delight, and for only the third or maybe the fourth time that day, Maes wonders how the other men in Central City have managed not to fall desperately in love with her too.

Little Creta has a dance floor, and musicians, but Maes is not much of a dancer. He has other things on his mind anyway. But that doesn't stop him from enjoying the music, as they peruse the menu and he orders wine for them both. There is a small but insistent lump in his jacket pocket; it weighs almost nothing at all and yet it's the heaviest thing he has ever carried. "Do you like it?"

"I love it. I've always wanted to come here," she confides.

"Yeah, your mother let that slip to me some while ago," he admits, "and I've wanted to bring you here but I forced myself to save it for a truly special occasion."

"Well, your graduation qualifies as a special occasion," she says, smiling beatifically.

"True." He lets it go at that, for the time being. They order their food, drink their wine, and chat pleasantly. Maes has no idea what they're actually discussing. He hopes the words coming out of his mouth make some kind of sense, because he honestly does not know what they are. He can only keep four words in his mind, and he's bursting to say them but the moment is not yet ripe.

Their food comes. They eat. Gracia praises everything - the food, the wine, the music, the atmosphere, the décor. He has to smile. He has never known someone as genuinely happy as his Gracia, someone so grateful for everything that is good and willing to forgive most anything that isn't. If she has ever had a cross word or an unkind thought for anything or anyone, he has never heard it.

Their dinner plates are cleared, and she asks if he wants to order some dessert. He decides this is the moment, mostly because if he has to endure a minute longer without saying the words he might legitimately explode.

"There's something else I'd like to do first," he says softly.

Her brows furrow in amused puzzlement. "Don't tell me you want to dance," she teases. "Because then I'll know for sure this has all just been a dream."

"No, no dream. No dancing, either," he adds. He might be babbling now, his tongue feels like a runaway train. "I want to tell you that I think you are the most beautiful, amazing, wonderful, perfect woman - person - that I have ever known. I admire you, I respect you, and I adore you. My life will never be complete if you aren't a part of it. So, um, Gracia Caroline Brooks…"

He jams his hand into the pocket, fingers slippery with anxiety, and tries to grab the ring box. It eludes him for several seconds, making the pause more than a little awkward. She's watching him, eyes round, heart almost visibly in her throat. Finally, he grasps the little case and yanks it out, tearing the pocket in the process but too nervous to care.

"Will you marry me?"

His heart is beating in his ears, and he can't hear the music anymore and all he can do is pry open the box so she can see the ring he chose just for her, the only one he thought might possibly be good enough to deserve the privilege of sitting on her hand. She takes the box, and tears are spilling out of her eyes, and he wonders if he somehow managed to upset her. Maybe she wanted something grander. A white horse! Why didn't he get a horse? Or broadcast his proposal over Radio Capital? Something more extravagant.

But then his hearing suddenly clears, just in time for him to hear her say the word that makes his heart stop.

"Yes."

* * *

The following day, still flush with triumph at securing the most phenomenal woman in the whole of Amestris for his future bride, Maes goes into his dark room to develop his film.

Most of the pictures are of her. She is just so naturally photogenic, he wants to follow her around all day and take photos. Sometimes he does just that, which is why the dark room is adorned with images of Gracia washing dishes and Gracia sitting under a tree and Gracia talking to her mother and Gracia looking at him with a sort of weary resignation as she realizes he's doing it yet again.

The picture of himself and Roy from graduation slowly fades into view in the tray filled with pungent chemical. Maes himself is grinning, eyes closed, one hand on his hat and the other on Roy's shoulder. He looks pleased. Roy could not look less pleased if he were actively trying - which, Maes has to acknowledge, he very possibly was at the time. His expression is not exactly sullen, but excessively serious, just hinting at a frown.

Once again, Maes is compelled to wonder who it was that Roy wanted to see on their commencement day. If not his mother and not his sisters, who did that leave? His old alchemy master was dead; he knows that from Roy himself, from the afternoon when he had received a phone call advising him that the end was imminent. Maes had watched as Roy hastily threw clothes into a suitcase and scribbled down a phone number where he might be reached in the event of an emergency. Then he was gone, almost abruptly, tearing out of the barracks and rushing to catch a train for parts unknown. His fervor had somewhat surprised his best friend, who knew that he was fond of his old teacher but not to such an extent as that.

Was there a girl, Maes wonders, that Roy had hoped would come to celebrate his success with him? Roy dates frequently. The women of Central City adore him almost uniformly, and he takes them out in a succession that makes Maes's head spin. But he never dates any one woman more than twice. He's too picky, Maes occasionally complains, and several times he has petitioned Gracia to set Roy up with one of her friends only to have the idea shot down by Roy himself. "I can find my own dates, thanks," he always says, and certainly that much is true. But he shows no sign of settling down, and will not even discuss the possibility of doing so. Sometimes, when the subject comes up, Maes imagines there's a sort of wistfulness in Roy's eyes, as though he is thinking of something that very closely relates to the topic but does not wish to share.

Roy has been in love at least once, of that Maes is certain. He just doesn't really know with who.


	4. Conscription

**Conscription**

_The compulsory enlistment of people into military or other national service._

* * *

For the first few days after Roy is gone, Riza wonders - frequently - if she is pregnant.

She finds herself hoping that she is. She enjoys the phantom stirrings of life, the belief that this baby who may or may not exist will create an extra tie between herself and Roy. If he is sent to war, and the rumblings that reach even her backwater corner of the country indicate that it's quite likely he will be, then perhaps the knowledge that he is a father will give him extra incentive to survive, to come back to her when it's all over.

She clings to this hope as she leaves the Hawkeye manor for the last time, abandoning it to the auction house. With a trunk full of clothing and a leather satchel full of books and papers, her coat over one arm and her hat on her head, she sets out for the inn of the next town over. She has no direction, and only Roy's card to provide her with a clue about where to go.

For the moment, she will stay in the inn; she has enough money for a week's lodging, and is able to persuade the innkeeper to stretch it into two by offering to work in the kitchen. It will be good, honest work, using her hands. She likes to cook and always had, and the clientele of the inn is effusive in their praise. She keeps to herself, placing her trunk in front of her door at night.

* * *

The evidence comes, as it does every month, to confirm that she is not pregnant.

She lets herself grieve. She genuinely did hope that she and Roy had, however unintentionally, started a family. But no matter; there will doubtless be another chance, someday.

* * *

Her mail is forwarded from the old address, including a letter from him. He has passed the exam; he is "the Flame Alchemist," and at the ripe old age of twenty he is the youngest State Alchemist in the country's history. She is proud of him, but dismayed; by the time the letter reaches her, inviting her to his graduation ceremony, it is too late for her to possibly get there in time. Worse is the postscript.

 _I am to be sent to the front lines,_  he says.  _They need me in this fight against the Ishvalans. If you aren't able to come to my graduation, I don't know when we'll see each other again._ Something is scratched out, illegible.  _I think of you every day. You're always with me._

That he is so honest with her surprises her. He is normally a bit more reserved about expressing his feelings, at least in words. She thinks about how she told him she loves him. And she thinks about his dream, his beautiful dream of peace and security for the entire country. She is filled with the desire to help him achieve it.

She takes out his card and reviews it. The military academy always accepts cadets.

There is a little money left, after the auction, a tiny bit after all the creditors are paid and the auction house takes their own cut. It isn't enough to cover much of anything, but it will buy her a train ticket to East City. One way. One way is all she needs.

* * *

They accept her without much hesitation. She is nineteen, fully grown, in perfect health and fully capable to enroll. She has no next of kin to state, which is the only thing that makes them pause, and she briefly considers listing Roy. She decides against it, however, and truthfully explains that her parents are dead and she was an only child. Having no other objections, they send her for the physical and hand her uniforms and start her in basic training.

For the first time in her life, she's sharing a bedroom with someone. Rebecca Catalina is effectively Riza's polar opposite; the long brown hair is only the beginning of their differences. She is relentlessly chirpy (except in the morning before she has coffee), and more than slightly man-hungry. It seems like she dates an awful lot. Despite these huge divides in their fields of interest, however, Rebecca is also very kind-hearted and somehow takes to Riza immediately.

"I never had a sister!" she gushes. "That's what we're gonna be like!"

Riza is nonplussed by this, but she's never had a sister either so maybe this actually  _is_  what it's like. They do, at least, find common ground in reading (they both like mysteries, and the occasional trashy romance) and dogs, and in their unified speciality - as it turns out, both are proficient snipers, although it's Riza who has the best record. The other cadets kid her about living up to her name.

The one complaint she has about Rebecca, or Becky as she also likes to be called, is that she's constantly trying to lure Riza out on a double date. To be fair, she does offer to recruit some very good-looking men to be Riza's companion for an evening. But no matter how much Becky talks them up, they all have one universal flaw that simply cannot be overcome. They are not Roy, and therefore, Riza declines.

"Look," Becky says finally one day, "just tell me why, and I'll stop. Are you secretly engaged or something?"

She's not sure how to answer that, because to say  _no_  isn't exactly right but  _yes_  isn't the precise truth either. She tries, therefore, to achieve some sort of middle gray area. "Not exactly. But I'm committed to someone."

"Seriously?"

"You could say that."

"Who is he?"

She hesitates. "My oldest friend. Let's leave it at that."

* * *

Becky does, at least for a while. She stops asking questions and stops trying to arrange dates for Riza. But Riza knows that she still wants to know the whole story. Becky's own life is pretty much an open book, and Riza may ask all the questions she likes, so she worries that she's hurting her friend's feelings by not returning the favor and offering the same unrestrained view into her own past. But she just can't.

The closest she comes is when she takes out her earrings one day, in order to polish them. They're the same silver studs that Roy gave her two years ago, the night her father allowed his student to escort her to a school dance. She has worn them every day since, and touches them often as her only tangible connection to him.

As she sits rubbing one earring with a soft cloth, Becky picks up the other and examines it critically. "Are these your only pair? You know, I've got some little diamond studs you can borrow if you want to mix it up once in a while."

"Thanks, but I'm attached to these."

Becky studies her, then, with the same scrutiny she has been giving the little silver earring. "Oh, really? Can I ask why?"

Riza looks up at her, and she knows from the way Becky's expression changes that her own has given away too much. She is less guarded than usual, more honest. "I thought so!" Becky exults. " _He_  gave them to you, right? Your mysterious sweetheart?"

Truthfully, Riza can't see any harm in admitting this much. "Yes."

"That's so cute! You wear them every day because they're from him." Becky puts the earring down again and wanders away, smiling. Riza can't quite fathom why this discovery makes her friend so happy, but it does.

* * *

She does send Roy a letter.

She isn't sure of exactly where he is, since by now he's probably shipped out. So she sends it to the care of the old address in Central, to his mother, and reasons that Madame will almost certainly forward it or, at worst, save it for when he comes home. (He has to come home. She has to believe that he will, or she will give up believing anything.)

_I'm so sorry I couldn't make it to your graduation. I moved out of the family home not long after you left, so it could be sold as you know, and it took so long for my mail to be forwarded to me that by the time I received your letter, it was too late. But I'm glad to know that you did so well, Major._

_I'm doing all right._  (She can't bring herself to tell him where she really is.)  _I hope we'll see each other again soon. To use your own words, I think of you every day, and you're always with me. Please be careful._

She signs it, seals it, and sits with the envelope in her hands for a long time before walking to the post box and dropping it inside.

* * *

Riza is the top of her class in firearms, and it's decided that she's needed at the front. She will be a sniper, perched in high places to protect the soldiers below. Her graduation is processed swiftly, and much sooner than it rightfully should have happened; she doesn't even get to attend the ceremony, she needs to go to the front  _now_.

Rebecca is near tears. "We barely even got to be roomies for a year," she laments, helping Riza fold socks into her trunk.

"Be glad you're not going too," Riza advises her. "Hopefully by the time you're done here, the damn thing will be over and I'll be home."

"I hope so, Riz, I really hope so. Write to me, okay?"

"Yeah, I will." Somewhat to her own surprise, she embraces her friend fiercely. "Thank you. You've been the first real girl friend I've ever had...thank you for that."

"By the time you come back, maybe I'll have landed a rich husband and gotten out of the military."

In spite of the gravity of the situation, Riza laughs. "I'll look forward to that."


	5. Proxy Warfare

**Proxy Warfare**

_In which the opponents use third parties as substitutes for fighting each other directly._

* * *

Roy isn't sure he believes that there is such a place as Ishval. He's actually rather convinced that he's secretly been sent to hell itself.

It's certainly hot enough to qualify. The military men, especially the officers, all have to wear thick uniforms of Amestrian blue, and over these they wear light white cloaks to shade them from the heat. The uniforms are absolutely ridiculous given their current climate, and it's as though he's being punished before he ever even starts doing anything.

Roy's not a particularly religious man; he doesn't claim outright that God doesn't exist, but he does maintain that the two of them aren't on especially close terms. They don't chat, to put it one way. The main reason he hopes that there is a god of some kind is because he's really very sure that he's met the devil, and he wants to believe that there's some good force out there that will balance. At the same time, however, he wonders how any sort of creator could possibly have inflicted something like Solf Kimblee on the world.

Kimblee is the Crimson Alchemist; some call him the Red Lotus Alchemist, which is a name that makes no sense at all to Roy. Crimson is more comprehensible, considering the amount of bloodshed of which Kimblee is capable. The military alchemists have provided Kimblee with a Philosopher's Stone, and it enhances his pyrotechnic powers manifold. Roy is sickened by the amount of unholy glee the man takes in his work.

They offer Roy a Stone too. He declines, mainly because of Kimblee. Their alchemy is already much too similar for Roy's liking; he'd prefer there be as many differences between them as possible.

Kimblee, he shortly determines, dislikes him intensely. That's all right; the feeling is mutual. Their antagonism starts on the day Roy arrives in Ishval, when Flame is introduced to Crimson. Kimblee does plenty of blowing things up, with or without people inside them, and he clearly resents the arrival of another State Alchemist with similar abilities. He wants to do all of the detonation himself.

It's this that makes Roy realize just how his alchemy is going to be used.

And that he doesn't have a choice.

And he thinks of Riza, and the trust she placed in him, and he wonders how he can ever go back and face her again.

* * *

He wonders a lot of things about Riza.

Why didn't she come to his graduation? He wanted to see her, wanted her to be proud of what she helped him achieve. In hindsight, pride is perhaps the last thing he feels about his rank, but at the time it had seemed like a great thing. Does she resent him, now, for what he took from her?

She told him she loved him.

He didn't say it back, which is something for which he mentally kicks himself on a regular basis. He  _feels_  it, certainly... or at least, he did at the time. These days, he doesn't feel much of anything that isn't somehow queasy and self-loathing. But he did at that moment. He could have said it, could have given her that much. All he did, the whole time he was there after the funeral, was take things from her - her hospitality, her secrets, her innocence. True, none of it was taken without her having offered it willingly, but in the grand scheme of things this is a scant comfort. The fact is that he took and took and took, and what did he give her? Nothing, not really.

Maybe it's just as well. Maybe she hates him now, like he hates himself.

The thought is a strangely satisfying one, as he stands in an abandoned street and snaps his fingers to destroy what it must have taken the Ishvalans generations to build.

* * *

The thing Roy understands least about what they're doing there is  _why_.

Every Amestrian knows that there was some kind of rioting by Ishvalans, and this rioting somehow escalated into the current war. But he has always understood that the Ishvalans are peaceful people. They live quiet lives, devoted to their deity, bothering not much of anyone. What would cause them to riot? How did it get so out of control that it's come to this - to what essentially amounts to an all-out campaign to exterminate the Ishvalan race?

He thinks again about whether or not he believes in God.

He thinks again about whether or not he believes in anything anymore.

He can't find an answer. He retreats, as often as he can, into sleep, half hoping he'll wake to find none of this hell is real. When he enters his tent at night, and sprawls on the cot, he pleads with anything that might be listening to grant him the refuge of oblivion, of dreamless nothingness.

* * *

About two months after he arrives at the front, or maybe three, Roy receives Riza's letter. It comes bundled in a care package from Madame and the girls, along with some cookies and new socks and a bottle of whiskey disguised as aftershave. As soon as he's able to claim some time alone, he retreats to his tent, burns his throat with a shot of the whiskey, and opens the letter. Her neat, precise handwriting slants elegantly across the crisply folded sheets.

So she missed his graduation due to postal misdirection. That soothes what little remains of his ruffled pride; she hadn't purposely skipped the ceremony out of malice, or anger.

She thinks of him.  _What_  does she think of him? He shouldn't be surprised that the letter is non-committal in that regard. Always cautious, Riza, never giving anything away without reason to think it's a wise move. He muses, fleetingly, that perhaps she wonders just as much what he thinks about her as he wonders what she thinks about him. She has even less security than he does, after all, and for the thousandth time he berates himself for not returning the sentiment when she told him that she loved him. Her one vulnerable moment, the only time she left her heart wholly unguarded

She is doing well, although again, she is curiously unspecific. She does clarify that she relocated to a remote inn and started working to earn her keep with her cooking. That thought pleases him, vaguely. Maybe she's still there. Maybe she'll find someone else, someone less complicated and more deserving. He's alternately depressed and buoyed by the idea.

He wants to keep her letter, he really does. For a day or two, he walks around with it folded inside his uniform pocket, a little talisman to rub between his fingers at odd moments. Now and then he pulls it out and reads it over again, lightly touching the words as though he can feel her through the ink.

And then he sees Kimblee watching him.

And he knows that Kimblee knows.

Exactly what Kimblee might know is hard to define. There's something very sharp and wrong about his smile. His most pleasant expression is curiously terrifying. Roy sometimes wonders if the man can read minds; he constantly has an edge to his smirk that suggests he knows  _everything_. Certainly he knows that this letter is important to Roy, and it's a fairly logical line of thought to then presume that the writer is also important.

"You read that letter an awful lot, Flame," he says.

"What about it?"

"You want to be careful with things like that out here. Never keep anything personally valuable on you when you're on duty," Kimblee advises. "You never know what could go wrong, who might take it from you, what they might do with what they learn."

Roy can't decide if this is legitimately friendly advice or a threat. Kimblee's voice is always a harsh whisper that makes everything he says, even commentary on the weather, sound dangerous.

"Whoever she is - or he," Kimblee adds, "just remember one thing. They are a weakness. Their very existence is proof that the Flame Alchemist has a weakness. And weaknesses are made to be exploited by the enemy...whoever you consider your enemy to be."

Roy has heard enough. He wants to keep this letter; it is all he has of Riza, really, apart from a photograph he very pointedly left behind in his room at Madame's bar. But for that very reason, it has to go. At night, in his tent, he reads it over one last time, memorizing the loops and cinches of her words; then, with a sigh of regret, he snaps his fingers and turns the letter to dust. The ashes float out through the open tent flap, mixing irrevocably with the desert sands, lost to him forever.


	6. Sortie

**Sortie**

_The deployment or dispatch of a single military unit from a strongpoint, usually for a specific mission._

* * *

It comes, of course, the summons that Maes has been suspecting and dreading since his graduation from the academy. The order comes with a slight incentive - his rank has been reassigned to that of First Lieutenant - but this is absolutely no consolation.

"I'm sorry, darling," he tells his bride-to-be. "I don't have a choice. They're sending me to the front."

He half expects Gracia to dissolve into tears, to completely shut down and beg him not to go. He realizes, after a second or two, that he should really know better than that. His glorious beloved is too strong for such a thing. She is distressed, certainly, but her concern seems to be all for easing  _his_  mind.

"It won't be so bad," she says. "I'm sure the fighting can't go on too much longer. And we'll write. You'll write to me as often as you can, and I'll send you letters every week, and care packages. You'll probably find Roy once you get there, and you two can look after each other."

Roy, yes. Roy has been at the front for several weeks already. His letters to Maes are few and far between, usually very vague, and give the impression that they are hastily scribbled at odd moments. Maes has, privately, been worried about him.

He lets Gracia help him pack. She folds clothes, replaces a missing button on a shirt, oils the squeaky hinge of his trunk. He sorts through his stack of photographs of her, finally limiting himself to taking only ten.

"I'll work on wedding plans while you're gone," she says. "So when you come home everything will be in place and we can get married as soon as possible."

"Sweetheart, how can we set the date? I don't know when I'm coming home."  _I don't know_ _ **if**_ _I'm coming home._

"Well, I had some ideas about that," she replied. "Here's what I was thinking. We could get married in my parents' backyard - you know how big it is - and have the reception right there too. That way the only things we'll need to do once you get back is to pick a date, send the invitations, and call the minister."

"You're brilliant."

* * *

She accompanies him to the station on the day of his deployment.

"I'll miss you so much," she says. At least, he's pretty sure that's what she says; her words are muffled where her face is pressed into his shirtfront.

"I'll miss you too. Wait for me, darling." He thinks about the single men of Central, trying to get their hooks into his angel, and his arms around her tightens.

"Forever, Maes, if that's what it takes."

"Oh, I promise not to make you wait that long. I'll be home as soon as I can to marry the most beautiful girl in the city."

"Who is she, do I have to kill her?"

He laughs. "That's my girl." The train whistle blows, and he kisses her. "I love you so much."

"I love you too. Be safe, Maes."

"I will. I swear."

He boards the train, and she kisses him one more time through the open window. "Come back to me. Whatever it takes,  _live_."

As the train pulls out of the station, Maes looks back, and sees her wiping her eyes with a handkerchief. That settles it. He will not break her heart by dying in this godforsaken desert. He will survive. He will come home.

* * *

The sight that welcomes him when he reaches the camp is not the one he expected.

To be fair, Maes isn't sure exactly  _what_  he expected. But he's quite certain that his expectations did not include the largest man he has ever seen, with a peculiar blond curl protruding from his domed head and an even more peculiar pink sparkle hovering permanently in his general vicinity. Maes stands a perfectly respectable height, not quite six feet; he's considered a bit more than commonly tall. But this man is something else entirely. If he had to guess, he'd estimate that this officer is close to eight feet tall. He also seems  _young_. Maes himself is only at the outset of his twenties, but somehow, the giant - despite his size - seems positively boyish.

The man is of a higher rank than himself; Maes can see that right away, so he salutes at once. "First Lieutenant Maes Hughes, reporting for duty, sir."

"It is a pleasure to meet you, Lieutenant," booms the man in a deep voice, as he returns the salute. "I am Major Alex Louis Armstrong, the Strong Arm Alchemist."

Ah. Maes has heard of the Armstrongs, among the last of the fading noble class in Amestris. Their lineage can be traced back generations, back to when the country had an actual aristocracy. "If you'll forgive the question, isn't your sister Colonel Armstrong, of the Briggs battalion?"

"Indeed! Olivier is my oldest sister." The weird sparkle seems to shine a bit more brightly at the giant's evident pride in the inquiry. "I have entered the military in an attempt to follow in her celebrated footsteps, though I have the natural aptitude for alchemy that she was not fortunate enough to possess, and so I became a State Alchemist."

"Right." The guy strikes Maes as being roughly as dangerous as a sack of kittens. On the other hand, he knows that you don't get to be a State Alchemist without having something to show for it, so there's got to be more to Armstrong than what he's seeing right now.

* * *

There is, as he slowly learns.

Armstrong... to put it simply, Armstrong is having a hard time handling what's going on. He has immense physical strength, but his eyes are young, and his heart is even younger. Maes isn't sure that he himself has ever been as young at heart as the gentle giant. It is very clearly killing Armstrong to be a part of the extermination of the Ishvalans.

This is a harsh contrast with Kimblee, the Crimson Alchemist, who seems to delight in it.

Maes, for his own part, settles in as best he can, and the weeks slip by almost unnoticed. His letters to Gracia gloss over the worst of the atrocities; instead, he tells her about the people he's met, about how terrible the coffee is. The other soldiers are decent fellows, but thus far he's seen no sign of Roy. He hears plenty about him, though, as he listens to his comrades talk. They also talk about a sniper, a petite female cadet who hadn't even finished her academy training before she was shipped to the front. 'The hawk's eye,' they call her, as she watches over the camp from on high.

One day, however, as he's sitting and drinking more of the wretched sludge with a few of them, a raving man is carried past on a stretcher. "Well," says one of the soldiers, "if it isn't old man Comanche. I wonder if he's been shot."

"If he has energy enough to howl like that, he'll be fine," says Maes blandly. "Good for you, old man, you can go home."

Comanche is a State Alchemist, too, and this fact turns the conversation to that aspect of the military. Living weapons, one of the men says. They're like cannons, with inhuman skills, and they all laugh at how frightening the State Alchemists are. All but Maes, who gets up and walks away in a mix of disgust and distress.

And as strange as it seems to him, it's exactly this which causes him to find his friend.

* * *

It's a lucky glance in the right direction. He sees the soot-covered cloak as the Flame Alchemist stalks through the crowd to one of the half-barrels filled with wash water. "Roy! Roy Mustang!"

Roy looks over, and actually smiles. "Hughes. So you're here too." Maes can see that Roy is pleased by the reunion, or at least, as pleased as he can be by anything these days. He kids his friend about being a Major, to which Roy demurs; it's only 'a rank equivalent to Major,' he says. "Really, I only have as much authority as a Captain."

"Same as me, then."

"When did you make Captain?"

"Just today! People out here are dying left and right. Quickest way to get promoted is to stay alive." Maes tries to sound jocular, like the other men in the camp, to cover up just how sick his own promotions make him. He suspects, however, that Roy understands.

After Roy washes his face, Maes studies him. "You look different," he says quietly. "You have a different look in your eyes."

"Yeah, you too." Roy sighs. "They're a killer's eyes."

"Yeah." Maes isn't sure why he smiles at that, but he does, and Roy smiles back. They both hate this place, but at least now they can hate it together. It's almost comfortable, as they start to walk, and talk about how they had such big dreams in the academy - how Roy's eyes would sparkle as he spoke of his plans for the "beautiful future." They even laugh a little bit.

"This stuff wasn't included in that dream," Maes says with a sigh. "How's life here?"

"Blast them with artillery. Shoot the hell out of whoever's left standing. Repeat as necessary."

"And they really plan to continue this until every last Ishvalan has been exterminated?" How horrible. How sick and horrible. But they have no choice, if this is the will of the Fuhrer. Sick bastard. Maes doesn't say that, though.

"Hey. Hughes."

"Hm?"

"The annihilation campaign. Isn't this an awfully risky strategy just to suppress rebellion?"

"That occurred to me too. It's not like this region has any real resources or commercial value. We're wasting armaments on this place just to bring 'peace to the east,' and meanwhile the west and south are just as explosive."

"I don't understand," says Roy. "What's here that's worth so much trouble?"

"I guess they want to make this a base for trading with the east and the south," Maes says slowly, "but if they plan on doing that..."

"...then it's kind of tasteless to reduce it to a field of rubble."

They stand in silence for a time, a silence that is only broken when a soldier calls out to Maes. "Lieutenant Hughes!"

"Captain."

"Oh, sorry! Anyway, here, you have a letter."

Maes takes the string-tied bundle, and lets out what could almost be considered a girlish squeal of joy. "It's  _my_  beautiful future," he gushes. "She's waiting for me to come home!"

Roy watches him in wry bemusement as he starts to gush. He knows he can trust Gracia - but what if the men in Central are hitting on her left and right? She's too gorgeous and personable for them to leave her alone. After a few minutes of this strange back and forth with himself, Maes finds himself being cut off by his friend.

"A word of advice," Roy says patiently. "It's a common thing in fiction. Guys who talk about their families and loved ones on the battlefield have a really good chance of getting killed. I'd suggest you keep your mouth shut about Gracia."

Maes blinks. He'd never thought about that.

"Well, what about you?"

"What about me?"

"She's got some really nice friends, you know, I bet when we go home... or have you got someone waiting?"

"No. Well - no."

It sounds more like a yes to Maes, but the situation reasserts itself before he can say as much. An Ishvalan, half-crazed to judge by the look on his face, leaps out of a hiding place in the sand to attack them with an ornamental dagger. Maes pulls out one of his push knives, and Roy's hand dives into his pocket for an ignition glove, but before either of them can do anything the Ishvalan falls. A bullet, seemingly from out of nowhere, splits his head in two.

"A gunshot?" Roy rasps.

"It's okay, Roy," says Maes, somewhat calmly. "It's one of our snipers." He gestures toward a distant crumbling tower. "The hawk's eye is watching us."

"...hawk's eye?" There's something strange and almost sickly about Roy's expression.

"She's a cadet from the academy, but she's got a good arm. She's become quite the topic of conversation." Maes explains what little he knows about the nameless woman, and wonders about the look on his friend's face. "To think they have to pull even a little chick like that all the way out here - it must be the end."

Roy doesn't say anything.


	7. High Ground

**High Ground**

_A spot of elevated terrain; strategically, holding the high ground is very desirable in warfare, as it provides numerous advantages over the enemy on lower ground._

* * *

"All right, cadet," says the officer who is greeting Riza on her arrival, "according to this you're the best in your class at marksmanship. Hawkeye, huh?"

"Yes, sir."

"Is that really your name or just an academy joke?"

"No, sir, that really is my family name."

"Strangely appropriate." He shakes his head. "Well, welcome to Ishval."

They take her through the camp to the rows upon rows of white tents, one of which is her own. A modicum of privacy, that's nice, she supposes. The tents are too small for people to share them, but even if that weren't the case, it doesn't take Riza long to realize that she would have one to herself regardless. There don't seem to be  _any_ other women serving on the front lines. It's a little unsettling, in truth. Of course the men always outnumbered the women at the academy, to the point where there were only five females in her class, but she hadn't expected to be the only one in the war. There are some women, she eventually learns, but they're mostly nurses in the medical tents. Though she watches and waits to see one, in the whole of her wartime service she doesn't encounter another female soldier.

To be fair, though, she keeps to herself as much as possible.

Her actual work allows this, even encourages it. She spends large portions of every day in one of the only towers to be found, a crumbling stone spire from which she has an excellent vantage point. From there she watches over the camp. She's not part of the active fighting; that's left to the fully fledged soldiers and the State Alchemists. Her primary job is to monitor the camp, and to shoot anything which poses a threat to the off-duty personnel.

Her aim is precise, and deadly. Her hands are steady around the rifle. She is obeying her orders. She is protecting lives.

But she is protecting lives by taking lives, and this does not sit wholly well in her mind. Aren't the Ishvalans her countrymen too? A different race, a different religion, but still citizens of Amestris. Why are they being ordered to wipe them off the face of the world, as if they had never existed at all? Is this what happened to the people of Xerxes, who once populated the desert and then vanished without a trace in a single night?

How does  _this_ fit into Roy's dream, the dream she's come to help him achieve?

* * *

Of Roy himself she sees nothing, for a while.

She hears plenty, though.

There are only a handful of State Alchemists on the front lines. One of these is Major Alex Louis Armstrong, a hulking but shockingly benign figure to whom Riza quickly takes a liking. He sits with her, sometimes, by the fire after she comes off duty, which confuses her at first but gradually she understands - she is small and female and his presence serves to discourage anyone who might decide it would be fun to mess with her. She's grateful.

One night, as they drink the horrible excuse for coffee that the camp offers, she asks him about the State Alchemists and why there are so few.

"There are not very many of us in the first instance," he explains, his booming theatrical voice subdued to a more normal volume. "The State Alchemist's exam is not an easy one to pass. Moreover, there are many who look down upon the program; State Alchemists receive generous salaries to fund their researches, and are given many privileges that even ordinary soldiers do not receive, but they - we - are virtually the property of the government. We cannot refuse any orders we are given, even if they go against our personal beliefs."

This makes sense to Riza, whose father had been disgusted by his apprentice's interest in the program. "But even of what there are of State Alchemists, you're not all here, are you?"

"No, because not all State Alchemists have skills which make them candidates for combat," he replies. "But most of us do, because otherwise there would be little use for us in the program. So the State Alchemists who are here - Crimson, Flame, Silver, Iron Blood, and myself, Strong Arm - we are the majority of the program's members. The only one I can think of whose aptitude doesn't work for combat is the Crystal Alchemist, Dr. Marcoh. They have him working in some medical program, although I don't know the specifics about that."

"And you don't want to know, Strong Arm. Trust me on that," says a new voice. They look up to see Kimblee, the Crimson Alchemist, smirking at them. "And this would be the famous hawk's eye, am I right?"

Riza is faintly amused that her actual name has been misunderstood by so many as a nickname. "Yes."

Kimblee sits down. "You're awful curious about the State Alchemist program."

"I've known some alchemists, that's all." Well, that and she carries the Flame's secrets on her back, but that of course goes without mention.

"State Alchemists?"

"Only the ones I've met here." It's not quite a lie, since she hasn't seen Roy since he achieved his certification; therefore, when she knew him, he wasn't a State Alchemist. It's the closest to lying she's come in years.

Kimblee only smiles, and there is something deeply unsettling about the smile. It puts her on edge, makes her wonder if he knows how close to a lie the statement is. "So I imagine you know how alchemy works."

"I know the basics. You need a specific design - an array - to activate it."

"Very good; that alone is more than the average civilian knows." He holds up his hands, each of which is tattooed with half of an array. "I press my palms together, and things blow sky high. It's the most beautiful sound in the world, things exploding...people screaming..."

"That's enough, Kimblee," says Armstrong shortly.

"Armstrong here wears special gauntlets. Show her, Strong Arm."

The giant complies, holding out hands adorned in spiked metal gauntlets engraved with another array. "Mine is an earth alchemy, of sorts. I manipulate matter by punching it."

"Silver's like me, his hands are tattooed. And then, of course, there's Flame, with his fancy embroidered gloves. I do respect the man's sense of fashion." Riza realizes that Kimblee is looking at her when he mentions Roy, watching for a reaction that she is careful not to give. Somehow, she thinks, he suspects the truth, or something close to it.

* * *

She is in the 'hawk's nest' one afternoon when she spots two soldiers walking. They are apart from the camp, absorbed in their private conversation, failing to keep watch for any danger. She does it for them, and sure enough, danger appears in the form of an Ishvalan. He seems to materialize from thin air, and through the scope of the rifle she can see the blade with which he intends to kill them both. She doesn't give him the chance.

As they start back to camp, she looks at them through the scope. One is a tall man with glasses whom she doesn't know. But the other... Breath leaves her lungs in a startled gasp, and she all but jerks her head back from the view. Her heart pounds.

It's Roy.

She's just saved Roy's life.

She barely has time to recover from this alarming discovery when another sniper knocks on his way up the stairs, an unspoken signal that the person coming up is friendly. She surrenders her post and stumbles down the stairs, still dizzy from the realization. She wraps her rifle in white fabric to protect it from the heat of the desert, and sits by the fire, where someone hands her a mug of revolting coffee. She gulps it, trying to steady herself, and looks around.

The fire is slightly downwind of the paddock where the officers' horses spend their time. She feels sorry for them, because the smoke that curls through the air must get into their eyes, but she's also grateful for the positioning because it lessens the stench of manure. One of the horses lies on its side, injured, being tended by what must be the closest thing to a veterinarian for miles. Soldiers walk around, alone or in pairs or the occasional cluster, speaking in low voices, sometimes chuckling. War, she thinks, is a strange place.

They have returned to the camp, Roy and the unknown man. She watches out of the corner of her eye, sees the unknown one asking something of a soldier; the soldier points at her. She knows what he wants, and decides to beat him to the punch. Abandoning her mug, her hood still up, she approaches them. They are on a slightly elevated ground, so they have to look down at her. The one she doesn't know is about to speak, probably to say thank you, but she doesn't give him the chance. She pulls back her hood and looks Roy in the eye.

"It's been a long time, Major Mustang...do you remember me?"


	8. Fire and Movement

**Fire and Movement**

_A tactic using suppressive fire, or the threat thereof, to decrease an enemy's ability to return fire, organization and unit cohesion, and morale._

* * *

_Ah, how awful...even this girl has the eyes of a killer._

Roy stares at her, at his golden-haired salvation. He has wondered, in very recent days, whether he could possibly hate himself more - and now he knows the answer. He hates himself far, far more now than he has at any previous moment.

"So you're the one who made that shot, am I right?" asks Hughes. Roy isn't looking at him, but he can imagine the amount of confusion that must be going through his friend's mind. Riza nods that yes, she was the one who shot the Ishvalan who would have killed them both. One more debt he owes her.

"Thanks for that." There's a pause after Hughes' words, and slowly, Roy remembers that they don't know each other.

"Sorry. Uh. You remember my telling you about my academy roommate, Maes?" She nods again, her eyes never leaving his. "This is him. Captain Maes Hughes. Hughes," he continues, turning to look at him, "this is Riza Hawkeye, my..."

 _My what? Do I have the right to call her_ _**my** _ _anything?_

"...my alchemy teacher's daughter."

"It's nice to meet you, Captain," says Riza, saluting. Her eyes still have that terrible quality to them, but her expression is polite and almost friendly. "The Major's told me about you. All good things."

"I wish I could say the same, little lady," Hughes replies, returning her salute, "but to be honest he's never said much about you to me at all. Keeping secrets, huh, Roy?"

Roy meets Riza's eyes at that, trying to apologize. She seems like she understands, though, or maybe she just doesn't care enough to react.

* * *

Hughes excuses himself shortly thereafter, to go and read the letter he's just received from Gracia, so Roy and Riza walk by themselves. Unbidden, she starts to talk about the events which led them here.

"I was always afraid of my father," she says. He remembers her describing him at the funeral as terrifying. "He was so intent with his research...a man obsessed. But I believed him, when he said the power he was researching would be for the greater good of the people."

_Alchemist, be thou for the people._

This is why she's here, as she's explaining. He watches her face, her sad and careworn young face. She had believed that alchemy would aid the military, and the military in turn would protect the people. He had believed it too. And he fears that she believed it because he believed it.

"Tell me, Major," she pleads. "Why are soldiers killing the citizens when they should be protecting them? Why is alchemy, instead of bringing happiness to the people, being used for murder?"

He is actually close to crying as she begs him to explain. "I don't know, Ri-Hawkeye." He doesn't feel entitled to use her first name. It's too precious for him to have the right to even hold it in his mouth. ( _Riza_  will not cross his lips again for many years, and even when it does, part of him will feel like he still doesn't deserve it, or her. But by that point, they will belong to each other so completely that names won't even really matter anymore. Until that day, however, her name is too close to something sacred for him to profane it by allowing it to be spoken with a killer's voice.)

* * *

That night, he finds himself unable to sleep, so he goes for a walk. But he quickly admits the truth to himself - this is not a walk at all. It's a scavenger hunt.

He is searching, among the tents, for one.

He knows it, once he finds it, as surely as he knows everything else about her. Her flaps are tied shut with an almost paranoid secureness, and this stabs at his heart. A lone woman in the killing fields with men, of course she must protect herself. He wonders if she feels she has to protect herself even from him, the one to whom she already gave everything so willingly. Her heart, her body, her secrets - there's nothing left to be taken that she didn't give to him. It feels like that all happened so long ago that it was practically another lifetime, and he and she were both different people entirely.

He has a responsibility to her, in many ways - not least is the fact that her father's dying injunction was for Roy to take care of his daughter. Roy is  _very_  certain that none of what's transpired between himself and Riza (he can still think the name even if he can't speak it) is what Master Hawkeye had in mind when he tendered the request, but it's happened and it can't be changed.

So he sits down, by the entrance to her tent, and leans against the sturdy pole, and tries to take some rest. This much he can do for her. Her days are haunted enough; maybe he can somehow make sure that her nights, at least, contain a modicum of peace.

* * *

They are sitting around the fire, he and Hughes and Riza, along with some of the other soldiers. The subject comes up again, about why they are killing instead of helping.

"Why? Because that is the job of a State Alchemist. Because that is the job given to us." Exactly when Kimblee joined the group having the conversation, Roy isn't sure, but every head swivels in his direction when he states this. "Am I wrong?" he asks, when he sees all the incredulous stares he's receiving.

"Are you saying we should just accept it?" Roy asks him.

"You can't accept it as your job?" Kimblee looks at them each in turn. "Any of you?"

"If we could," says one soldier, "we wouldn't be discussing it."

Kimblee hums thoughtfully. "You there, little lady sniper," he says, turning his cold eyes on Riza, and Roy immediately feels his hackles rise. "You have a look on your face that says you don't like what you do."

"That's right. I don't like killing," she admits.

"Really? Are you saying that you don't feel any sort of sense of accomplishment when you bring down a target? That when you defeat your opponent, it doesn't feel like an achievement?" He studies her closely. "You don't take pride in your work?"

Riza's eyes grow round and hollow at the question, and her smudged face is pale. Roy is out of his seat before he can stop himself, seizing Kimblee by the collar of his uniform. "Don't say another  _word_  to her!"

Kimblee calmly disengages himself from Roy's grip. "To me, you're the ones who don't make sense," he says. "You're in a  _war_ , and you're trying to find justice. Didn't you understand what you would be signing up for when you agreed to be soldiers? You  _chose_  this fate. So don't feel sorry for yourselves now."

He looks Roy in the eye. "So don't avert your eyes from death," he advises. "Look at the people you kill. And don't forget them...because they will never forget you."

Smoothing his uniform where Roy rumpled it, he adds, "Time for me to go to work."

"I have to go too," says Hughes, standing slowly. "They're moving me to section 18 today." He pauses just long enough to put a hand on Riza's shoulder and give it a little squeeze, and she glances up at him gratefully. "I'll see you, Roy."

"Hughes?" Roy turns to him. "Why are  _you_  fighting?"

His friend pauses, and shrugs. "It's simple, really...I don't want to die."

* * *

Roy ponders this, even as he takes up position outside Riza's tent again after she's gone to sleep. He doesn't want to die, either - does he? But the better question would have to be, can what he's doing really be called living?


	9. Fire Support

**Fire Support**

_Long-range firepower provided to a front-line military unit._

* * *

Armstrong is melting down before Maes' very eyes.

"Why?" he wails, clutching the body of an Ishvalan child. "Why must we continue fighting this way?"

Other officers are shouting at him, demanding that he stand. Maes, being of lesser rank than Armstrong, keeps silent as he watches from a distance. The soft-hearted giant is weeping, on his knees, and unable to function. Finally, disgusted, the commanders send him away and call for another alchemist. The idiot running things, Fessler, seems to think it's a glorious destiny to die in the charge.

Basque Grand, the Iron Blood Alchemist, comes to clear out the mess. Even as the dust settles, a party of Ishvalans appears waving a white flag. Their high priest is requesting an audience with Fuhrer Bradley, to offer his life in exchange for those of the surviving Ishvalans. Maes is impressed. Brigadier General Fessler isn't. He rages about how in an extermination, there are to be no exceptions.

Iron Blood is calm. "Haven't you heard?" he asks the General. "Out on the battlefield, twenty percent of the officers are being killed by their subordinates." And before Fessler can react to this statistic, Grand lifts a rifle and shoots him dead in the chest.

Everyone stares for a moment. "It was a stray bullet," says Maes, and the others agree.

Grand assumes command, ordering Maes to escort the priest - Roe is his name - to the Fuhrer. Roe attempts to offer gratitude to Grand, who refuses to accept it, noting only that he will pray the parley is successful.

* * *

Of course, it isn't.

"So you think you can save the thousands of remaining Ishvalan lives with your one life?" asks Bradley, studying the white-haired cleric with disdain. "Don't be conceited. One life is worth exactly that - one life. No more, no less. I won't hear of any replacement, and I won't stop the annihilation. Take them away, and stop wasting my time." Not once does he raise his voice, but his tone is almost that of a man scolding a group of errant children.

Those Ishvalans who have attended Roe to the meeting, however, raise their voices. "The wrath of God will fall upon you!"

"God, you say?" the Fuhrer inquires. "Strange. In these circumstances, God's wrath has yet to fall upon me. Even now, the god of the Ishvalans has yet to appear. I wonder, when and where will God come to save you? What  _is_  God, anyway?" He sneers a bit. "Nothing more than an idol created by men. An idol, defeat me? I think not. Take them away, and treat them like all the other Ishvalans. Captain Hughes, return to your post and continue the fight; keep our casualties as few as possible."

Maes wants to apologize to the Ishvalan men, on behalf of the rest of the country, but he doesn't dare. Instead, he leaves the room, accompanied by a Lieutenant. "Tell me something," he mutters to the other soldier. "What's your religion?"

"Well, sir, I...don't really profess to anything in particular." Grimly, he added, "But if I were to choose, I don't think I'd choose the faith of the Ishvalans."

"Yeah...me neither," Maes replied. "I'd decline from a religion that's been abandoned by its god."

* * *

He relates all this later to Roy, who has his cloak hood up and is sort of covering his face. Roy drinks it all in, thoughtfully, but Maes senses he has something else on his mind.

"And Armstrong is gone," he adds. "Deserted, basically, although officially he's been 'reassigned' back to Central. He just couldn't handle all this, he's too gentle."

"Yeah."

"Might be the smartest one of us all."

"Might be."

"What is going on upstairs, Roy? Where's your head?"

Roy grunts by way of response, so Maes resorts to a slightly dirty tactic. "I got another letter from Gracia," he says. "She's learning to bake apple pie. I'm supposed to bring you over for some, whenever we get out of this hell." Roy is an admirer of Gracia's cooking, and he's hoping this will perk him up some.

It has instead a very different effect. Roy looks up at him, finally, and asks a gut-wrenching question. "When we go home...Hughes, what's going to happen with you and Gracia? How are you going to be able to make her happy? Are you going to be able to touch her with hands that have killed people?"

Maes is, at first, infuriated by the question. How dare Roy, of all people, cast such aspersions on his future happiness? How can he do such a thing? But even as he hauls Roy up by the collar, he feels his anger dissipate. Roy, he realizes, is speaking not of Maes and Gracia, but of himself, and Riza. It's there in his half-dead black eyes.

Roy loves that girl; Maes figured that out the day he first met her. His long-standing suspicion, the one about Roy having been in love at least once in his life, received full confirmation, and he instantly resolved never to try to set Roy up on a date again. Her very existence explains so many things that it's almost ridiculous that she and Maes never met before the war. Roy loves her, and Maes loves Roy - they might as well be brothers for how much they love and annoy each other - so by extension he loves Riza too, in a roundabout fashion. He likes her on her own merit (and the fact that she saved his life doesn't hurt), but for Roy's sake it goes deeper than that.

And as much as Roy does love her - indeed, probably  _because_  he loves her with that kind of stupid self-sacrificing love that Maes can easily imagine Roy having for a woman - he's afraid to put his hands on her as he once might have done. Roy blames himself for not only his own atrocities but also hers, for reasons that Maes suspects he will never completely understand. For whatever reason, he faults himself for Riza being there. He feels unworthy, as though to inflict his love upon her will only desecrate her farther.

It is because of this strange mental self-flagellation that Maes will forgive Roy for his question. His voice, however, remains harsh; he suspects that if Roy knows he is being pitied, he will only hate himself more.

"I will go home to Gracia," he says, "and I will love her, and I will do anything I have to do to make her happy. Because she deserves that."

There are so many other things he wants to say to Roy.  _Don't give up on her. Or yourself. You are both capable of love, and you both deserve it, no matter what you were forced to do here. If you can't forgive yourselves, maybe you can forgive each other and that will be enough._

Instead, he looks outside at the war machine that still plans to consume them.

"Stand up, Flame Alchemist...it's time for work."

* * *

Later, the three of them are together again. No one is speaking much; the divide between Roy and Riza feels like it could engulf them all. Roy seems almost sullen, and Riza is trying to retreat into herself.

"I got a letter from Gracia today," Maes offers, and Roy ignores him. Riza smiles politely, but as he watches, the sadness crawls back into the depths of her eyes. He shakes his head; they need a little help. They both  _need_ , so desperately that he can practically smell it, and what they need more than anything is each other.

"You two. Get out of here."

Now he has Roy's attention, and both of them are looking at him in confusion. "What?"

"I'll cover for you. Go on." He looks at them meaningfully. It takes a minute or two, but they finally understand what he's telling them and, to his great delight, they actually obey. They can't have much time alone - indeed, they come back less than half an hour later - but he can do this much for them. Maybe they'll name their kid after him, someday.


	10. Hammer and Anvil

**Hammer and Anvil**

_A relatively simple maneuver in which a cavalry force captures a unit of infantry. While two infantry forces are fixed in an engagement of frontal assault, the cavalry maneuvers around the enemy and attacks from behind, sandwiching it into the friendly infantry._

* * *

One thing Riza definitely has to do, and preferably soon, is figure out how she feels about Roy.

She still loves him, but she somewhat hates him too. Maybe the two things are not that far removed from one another. Various things tip the scales more clearly in one direction or the other. She's very resentful, unfortunately.

One morning, very early, she wakes and needs air. She unties her tent flap and makes the astonishing discovery of the Flame Alchemist, sitting there, fast asleep against her tent pole. His hair shines darkly in the pre-dawn light; his mouth hangs open slightly, his breathing deep and measured. She wakes him, gently, and he blinks up at her with his inscrutable black eyes, drowsy and unguarded. She realizes instantly what he's been doing, and the fact that he wants to both defend her safety and respect her privacy eases her mind a great deal.

"Have you been doing this every night?" she asks him softly. No, he says. Not every night. But often. Her next question seems natural enough to her: "Why?"

"Because I need you to be okay," he admits. "I wouldn't know what to do...I'd be lost without you."

She swallows a lump in her throat, and gestures for him to come inside the tent. Nothing happens between them - at least, nothing like what happened the last time he saw her as a civilian - but it's enough of something to give her a piece of hope.

* * *

Once, and only once, she discusses the subject with Maes.

Riza has grown very fond of Maes, during their weeks together. Sometimes, just for fun, they sit together and trade stories about Roy; she tells him anecdotes from their shared adolescence and he tells her about their antics in the academy. Other times they talk about unrelated topics - Gracia, his wedding plans, Gracia, their educational backgrounds, his family (never hers), Gracia, her time in the academy, and Gracia are frequent subjects of conversation.

But the whatever-it-is that she has with Roy, they discuss just one time.

"So were you two dating?" Maes wants to know.

"Not exactly. We had  _a_  date. Once. A few years ago." Of course, that's more than Riza's ever had with any other man, so it's pretty important to her. "I guess we're...something, but I'm not sure what."

"Yeah, you're something, all right," he agrees. "He never told me much about you."

"You said something to that effect when we first met." She'd been hard pressed to hide how much that hurt her feelings.

"No, no, let me explain." Maes shook his head. "Roy told me once that a soldier shouldn't talk too much about the people he loves most, because it's dangerous. I can't seem to help it, with Gracia, but still. Every time I think about him telling me that, I think about you and how he wouldn't talk about you. And I think, you must be the most important thing in the world for him, because he wants so much to keep you safe."

She really is very fond of Maes.

* * *

Riza doesn't know what exactly prompts the Fuhrer to decide that the war in Ishval has been won.

As exterminations go, it hasn't been a complete success. She knows there are Ishvalans out there; she's seen them, from time to time, through her scope. It's her own quiet rebellion that she allows them to live, as long as they don't come near the camp - which, as far as that goes, is pretty much the last place they want to be anyway. She won't take lives if she doesn't have to do it, and technically, her orders are to shoot anything that poses an immediate threat. Since they don't, she quietly pretends that they aren't there.

It's not much, but it's the best she can do.

But in spite of her own private evidence to the contrary, Fuhrer Bradley announces that they have achieved their objectives and that the war is over. She barely knows how to react to this information, and she realizes that part of her shock stems from the fact that in a way, she didn't expect to be going home. She didn't really think she was ever going to survive long enough. And now that she has, she doesn't know quite what she's going to do with the rest of her life.

* * *

She finds an Ishvalan child's body by the side of the road.

Most of the casualties, from both sides, have been taken away. Where they go, to whom, she neither knows nor wants to know. So to find this random child, this unknown boy, is strange. How he died is a mystery; he doesn't seem especially injured, and if she didn't know better she might have thought he was merely asleep. He looks peaceful, which is perhaps the strangest part of all.

No one else is likely to want to do anything about the body, and Riza realizes it's up to her to extend to him some kind of respect, some dignity. She has no shovel, so she hollows out a grave in the dirt with her bare hands, and uses a scrap of lumber for a headstone. She wraps the boy in a blanket and lowers him carefully.

It's as she is patting dirt into place on the grave that a shadow falls on her, and she hears Roy's voice asking, gently, if it's a comrade she's burying. She answers him in a quiet voice, her body shaking.

"Let's go back," he says as she finishes. "You'll be left behind; the war is over."

"It's not over inside me." It's as close as she can let herself get to raging at him. "It will never be over. I trusted you... I gave you my father's research..."

 _My father's research_.

The secrets of flame alchemy remain encoded on her skin. If it ever becomes known what she carries, her life may well be forfeit. More than that, she just wants it gone. She wants to be free.

"I have a favor to ask of you, Mustang." She hears him utter the tiniest gasp; she has never, in the whole of their acquaintance, addressed him in that way. She never will again, either. But right now she's too emotional for niceties. "I want you to burn the array off of my back. Obliterate it."

"How could I ever do such a thing?"

"You're the only one who can do it!" She's angry, but also pleading. "I need to be released from this burden... I need to be set free from flame alchemy and from my father. Let me be just Riza Hawkeye. Please," she says, and now she looks at him. "Please."

His hands, ungloved, clench into fists. "All right," he says at last, his voice full of pain. "I'll...I'll leave as little trace as I can."

"Thank you."

* * *

They do it that night, before either of them can be sent anywhere. Alone, in her tent, she disrobes before him once again. She stuffs her cloak into her mouth to muffle the screams that she knows will come. He partially disrobes as well, perhaps partly in some kind of gesture of solidarity, but she thinks it's probably more to do with the heat he will generate in such a small and enclosed space.

He tries to be merciful. He has a numbing agent, some helpful cream or other that was given to him by a coroner. But she doesn't want to be numb. She wants to  _feel_ this, because if she feels the pain it will prove that she really is still alive; she's had plenty of cause to doubt that in the course of the war. Reluctantly, he lets her have her own way.

He can't bring himself to burn it all, so she consents to allow him to just burn the most significant portions of the array, the parts that would be hardest to replicate and which hold the most vital pieces of information. She lies on her stomach, cloak clenched between her teeth, her body seizing up again and again in pain and terror.

"No more," he says finally. "I've - I've burnt off the worst of it. No more, please."

She looks over, eyes streaming, to where he has sunk down to sit on the floor of her tent. One hand is pressed to his face, and his shoulders are trembling. He is weeping, though silently. They have known each other for years, and she has never seen him cry. Not until now. Now, when he has inflicted suffering - again - on her.

And now she knows it for sure. Even if he didn't say it, even if he never says it, Roy loves her.

Their lives, she quickly understands, are never going to be quite right. They will forever lean back to back, too weak to stand alone but strong enough to be each other's strength. There will never be another man, for Riza; there will never be another woman, for Roy. Not one who means what they mean to one another. She will follow him to the ends of the earth if she must, but make no mistake, they have to be together. It's the only way either one of them is going to survive.

The resentment is gone. It falls to the ground with Roy's tears and disappears into the dirt as quickly as they do. She clutches the cloak to her chest, keeping her back exposed to let her fresh injuries breathe, and leaves the cot to sit beside him. After a moment, she takes his hand, and he pulls her close and buries his face into her shoulder. He mumbles an apology, and she touches his hair. She thinks he might understand... and if he doesn't, he will. She will make sure he understands. He is forgiven.


	11. Dragon's Teeth

**Dragon's Teeth**

_A square-pyramidal fortification of reinforced concrete intended to impede the movement of tanks and mechanised infantry._

* * *

Instead of continuing to hold 'a rank equivalent to Major,' Roy is given the full rank  _of_ Major, and sent to the Eastern Headquarters after the war. The Eastern HQ is run by General Grumman, whom he's known for many years as a regular patron of his mother's bar. In fact, it was Grumman who suggested Master Hawkeye as Roy's alchemy teacher, which means that Roy considers himself to be heavily indebted to the quirky old man. They play chess daily, and Roy slowly begins to learn which of Grumman's remarks are veiled in secretive code.

With the war behind them, Riza returns to the academy to receive formal commendation, and the rank of Second Lieutenant. Her wartime experience more than makes up for the academy time she missed, although neither of them realize for just how many years she will be a Lieutenant. He's a little surprised when she re-enlists, but also relieved. With Grumman's permission he sends for her specifically. She stands before him, saluting him crisply, and for a few minutes they pretend to be complete strangers. It doesn't hold up. They discuss her decision to remain in the military.

He will keep her close, a decision he made before she ever entered his office. Grumman has given him  _carte blanche_  to assemble a small team of his own; already the old man has begun what will become a long career of training Roy in covert operations, and he understands the need for there to be people on whom Roy can rely completely. There is no one, save Hughes (who is back in Central), on whom he can rely more completely than Riza.

"I am going to make you my assistant," he tells her. "Do you understand what that means?"

She does, and he knows that she does. It was the subject of the final meeting between himself, herself, and Hughes before they went their separate ways from Ishval. After dancing around the topic with Hughes alone, he presented the idea to Riza in a more straightforward manner. Roy has come to the conclusion that if he ever hopes to change the country for the better, if he truly intends to prevent an atrocity like Ishval from ever happening again, then there's only one thing he can do. He must aim for the top. Only in the position of Fuhrer of Amestris can he fully implement the sweeping changes he wants to make.

"You've got my support," Hughes had said. Indeed, back in Central, he has entered the intelligence department. With his ear to the ground, he will be well placed to provide Roy with information that will help him in his efforts.

From Riza, he asks something else. There is no one else in the world who has more of a right to the position he is offering her. He wants her to be nothing less than his own conscience - to make sure that he never uses flame alchemy, or any of his other abilities, for the wrong reason ever again. If she will follow him, it will be her duty to both protect him and to kill him with her own hands if he wanders astray. She closes her eyes, appearing to consider it.

It's a massive responsibility, and he knows what he will do if she accepts it, but he is unsure what he will do if she does not. Fortunately, as her eyes open once more, he knows that she will not make him find out.

"If you ask me," she says, "I will follow you into hell itself."

"Thank you." He knows she doesn't need him to elaborate on the gratitude. "You will be my second-in-command," he continues, more briskly, "and answer to me directly in all things. It's going to be like I told you and Hughes. I will protect you, as much as I can, and you will protect those below you."

"And also you," she points out, smiling slightly.

"And also me," he agrees with a trace of humor. He opens a folder. "Now, as to the rest of this team, I've been eyeing a few possibilities. I'd like to get your opinion of them."

* * *

The first team member, after Riza herself, is young, and painfully shy, which seems altogether amusing considering his last name is  _Fuery_. He's a communications specialist, a fact that Roy imagines will come in handy in all sorts of ways during recon missions. In fact, Fuery seems remarkably gifted with the equipment, though he downplays this with a charming modesty. "It was really just a hobby, and I was lucky enough to be able to do it for a living."

Roy gets a phone call from Hughes that same afternoon, an event which will in time become an incredible nuisance (and, eventually, something he misses desperately when it no longer happens). For the moment, though, it's a pleasant novelty. "Armstrong's here," Hughes reports. "He's pretty shaken up by the whole thing, still, but he's resolved to stay in the military. If you ask me, he got a wicked tongue-lashing from that terrifying sister of his. Anyway, I invited him to be on my team - he may be a softy but he's also very sharp and has a great mind for details, so I think he'll be an asset."

"How'd you manage that? He outranks you."

"That probably won't last long." Hughes lowers his voice. "It's pretty much a given that Armstrong's never going to get promoted higher than he is right now, because of his defection and what's seen as his weak disposition. I figure if he's on my team, I can at least keep him working on projects that won't cause him as much anxiety."

"It's a good plan," Roy agrees. "Hawkeye will be happy; he looked out for her a bit, back in the war, and she likes him. Meanwhile, I need to requisition something. Can you help me out?"

"Are you coming back to Central for my wedding?"

"Yes, I said I'll be the best man, and I will."

"In that case, yes. What do you need?"

* * *

Much sooner than Roy expects, Hughes is able to send him what he requested. It comes with a note, of course, which he can't says surprises him.

_Roy, here are the replacement tags. You and Hawkeye need to be more careful about these, okay? Sorry I can't be there to deliver them personally and make sure you do what you told me you would, but I'm looking forward to seeing you both for my wedding._

The word  _my_  is slightly underlined. Almost completely circumspect, but Hughes just couldn't resist that one little tease.

He calls Riza into his little private office. She's been talking with the newest recruit for his personal team, an older soldier with a memory that would put even Hughes to shame, but she excuses herself immediately to see what Roy needs. "Sir?"

"I have something here," he says, placing the small package on the desk, "for each of us. But I need your consent to the idea."

"What is it?" She looks only puzzled.

He opens the package and extracts the contents - two dog tags. One hers, one his.

"I've been thinking over the matter," he explains. "As far as anyone knows, we are essentially each other's next of kin. I thought that maybe we should wear each other's dog tags - I'll wear my two and one of yours, you'll wear your two and one of mine. For ease of identification, you understand."

She looks at him with her inscrutable brown eyes. He holds her gaze, trying to will her to understand without words what he's really doing. "Only if you want to do it," he adds. "Only if you...accept."

Her brow furrows slightly as she digests this hint. And then she nods.

"It seems like a prudent thing to do," she says. For an instant he thinks she doesn't entirely get it, but the corners of her mouth quirk upward in the tiniest smirk. "Thank you, sir."

Amused, and relieved, and something else he doesn't want to identify by name, Roy pulls off the chain bearing his own tags, gesturing for her to do likewise. She does, and they trade chains. He opens her chain's clasp and slides off one of the tags already there, then slips his spare into place and returns the one he removed so that his tag is sandwiched between the two of hers. She watches him do this, slow and methodical, and then mirrors his actions perfectly. With slow solemnity, he then lifts his hands to drape her chain around her neck once more, and dips his head so that she may do likewise with his. In the same breath, they tuck the tags down their shirtfronts again, out of sight.

His tags - all three of them - settle against his chest, near his heart.


	12. Parthian Shot

**Parthian Shot**

_An ancient military tactic in which archers, mounted on light horses, would feign retreat; then, while at full gallop, they would turn their bodies back to shoot at the pursuing enemy._

* * *

Maes gets off the train in Central to find that the most beautiful woman in the world is waiting for him.

He practically flings his duffel aside and smothers her in his embrace. "I have missed you  _so_  much," he tells her. "I got your letters - they kept me going - you're wonderful." He's kind of babbling, unable to put a stopper in the stream of compliments and gratitude and adoration that's flowing freely from his mouth. Gracia finally kisses him, which she has long since learned is the most effective way to silence Maes Hughes.

"I'm glad you're back," she tells him, simply. "Let's go home - there's a spinach quiche with your name on it."

Home.

* * *

The next several weeks are rather a massive blur. Maes reports to Central Command and gets placed in the intelligence division, as he requested. He keeps in steady contact with Roy out in the east, relieved to hear that he was able to acquire Riza as his personal assistant and - Maes can't suppress a snicker at this - bodyguard. The mighty Flame Alchemist needs a bodyguard. He himself acquires Major Armstrong as a sort of assistant, as he tells Roy. The gentle giant seems grateful for the assignment; in a way, Maes supposes, Armstrong feels almost safe now.

It might be said that it's part of his own contribution to Roy's work. Armstrong may not be under Maes, exactly, but Maes will still protect him as much as he can.

Of course, the major time sink of the months following the war is wedding plans. Gracia handles most of the details, but he hears all about them over dinner every night. It's an endless parade of flowers, music, ribbons, dates, times, fittings, food, cake, and to be honest he suspects his eyes start to glaze over after a while. He cares about his wedding, of course, but the main attraction to him is that he's marrying his dream girl and all eyes will be on her. This is really her day, and he wants it to be about her and how special she is.

She issues one injunction for him and Roy, who is the best man; they are to wear tuxedos, not their uniforms. It's not unheard of for military personnel to wear uniforms to such functions, but Gracia vetos the very idea. The military wedding guests will be encouraged to wear civilian clothes too. He's not sure why she's so vehement about this, unless it's her own tiny rebellion against the war that separated them for far too long, but he doesn't mind. Her wedding, her rules, no arguments.

* * *

"So Roy is bringing this Riza I've heard so much about?" she asks him over lunch, as they wait to meet the train from the east.

"Oh, sure. I don't think they go anywhere without each other if they can help it; besides, she's a guest in her own right."

"I'm really looking forward to meeting her."

"I think you'll like her. I know she'll like you, because I don't know anyone who couldn't like you," he adds with his most charming grin, and she laughs. "But I do think you'll get along."

"So you think she's the reason Roy never settled down while you were at the academy?"

"That's my theory. Remember how twitchy he was at graduation, how he kept looking around like someone was missing?"

"Well, sort of. My memory of your graduation ceremony got a bit displaced," she teased, "since that was the same day you proposed. But I think I do know what you mean, he seemed a bit twitchy."

"Right. I think she was supposed to be there, and for whatever reason, she didn't make it. You should have seen the look on his face when we found her in the war." Maes shook his head. "It half destroyed him."

"He really loves her."

"They go back even farther than he and I do, and he told me I'm the first friend he ever had. Which means she isn't a friend," Maes notes shrewdly. "Yes, he does."

They meet the train, and as Roy and Riza step onto the platform, Maes impulsively sweeps them both into a bear hug. He has missed them more than he's been willing to admit, even to himself. He introduces the women, noting as he does that Riza seems a bit healthier than the last time he saw her. She shakes Gracia's hand, a little overly formal but nevertheless friendly. They are both quiet girls, and perhaps slightly timid; even so, it doesn't take them long to warm up to each other at all.

"So tell me all about what you have planned for the wedding," Riza says as she falls in step beside Gracia.

Roy chuckles. "Yeah. I want to hear about this fancy tuna you've got planned for the main course at the reception."

Maes snorts, and lets the women get a few paces ahead of them before he slings an arm around Roy's shoulders. "So...how'd it go with the tags?" he asks casually.

"According to plan." Roy doesn't want to smile, he can tell, but there's a content sort of glint in his eyes.

"You know, you need to get yourself a wife like I'm doing. Maybe Gracia could aim the bouquet -"

"Stop it right there, Hughes. Even setting aside any other possible objection, it's against the law."

Maes grins. "Just promise me," he says, watching the women chat, "that someday - maybe not this year or the next, but  _someday_  - you'll be in my position."

Roy seems to mull that over, his gaze lingering on the back of the golden head.

"Sure, Hughes," he says finally. "Someday."

_~Fin~_


End file.
